  A fragrance lingers, though the rains be done; And apple-trees have shaken from their hair The thin and shining blossoms, one by one, Starring the roadway like a silver stair. And something softer than the rain comes by, Older and dearer than these bright, new days: An odour ... or a trick of lights that lie Familiar on these grass-grown, rutted ways. This lane in May is such a haunted thing, For all the newness of the rain-wet trees: An old, old May, remembered of the Spring, Returning ghostwise on such days as these, Moves in the blowing odours where they pass, Trailing these scattered blossoms in the grass. |
|
